Текст книги "Saving Francesca"

Автор книги: Melina Marchetta

Соавторы: Melina Marchetta
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chapter 10

IN HISTORY CLASS, I’m sandwiched between Thomas Mackee and Justine Kalinsky. None of his friends are in this class, so he doesn’t feel the need to be Neanderthal man, although our history teacher has explained that Neanderthal man was very misunderstood and not the boofhead he was reputed to be. As usual, Thomas Mackee is making those frustrated grunting noises that have nothing to do with the Franco-Prussian War. He does what he always does in his spare time. He tries to decipher musical notes from some tabular form. Thomas Mackee has a passionate need to be in a punk band, but from the looks of things he learned music by ear, and now, for some reason, he has to know how to read it. When I can stand it no longer, I grab the book and sheet in front of him and pass them to Justine Kalinsky so quickly that they are undetected by the teacher and Thomas Mackee can’t get to them.

It takes Justine Kalinsky ten minutes to decipher the notes. She’s like this music genius. I hand the music back to him, and he makes one of those grunts that Cheetah makes in Tarzan movies when Tarzan explains something important to him. A kind of “huh” and “oh yeah” mixed into one.

I look at him. “Would you like me to introduce you to her? Her name’s dumb bitch.”

“Why don’t you just take a Midol,” he snarls.

I ignore him, and as we pack up he grunts a thanks to Justine, who glances at me, distressed.

“This doesn’t mean we have to be his friend, does it?”

On the bus, Justine Kalinsky and I sit in the back row making small talk about one of the teachers. When the bus stops at Broadway, about ten Pius girls get on. Two of them are Michaela and Natalia, my Stella friends. As usual, they’re animated, enjoying their lives with those around them. Why do I feel as if something’s missing in my life without them and they don’t feel the same about me? That doesn’t make them bad, does it? My mother’s voice goes through my head. She’s the hoarder of memories. “Remember the time they stayed for the weekend and didn’t even say thank you or goodbye? Remember the time they wouldn’t come to the phone when you were crying and apologizing about something you had no reason to be sorry for? Remember the times they’d come to school and decide they weren’t going to speak to you that day?” No, Mum. Because I chose not to remember the moments that pigeonhole me as one of the top five losers of all time, but hey, thanks for the memories.

Natalia and Michaela spot me instantly. “Oh my God,” they scream, running down the aisle, knocking people in the face with their bags. Thomas Mackee looks up from the music magazine he’s reading, unimpressed by the squealing. I don’t think it’s the excitement of seeing me as much as the theatrical aspect of their personalities that compels them to do it. But they always made me laugh at St. Stella’s. They gave me some identity.

We hug, and a few of the other ex–Stella girls wave from the front of the bus. Others ignore me. Girls like Tina, our archenemy, who’d throw a party and invite everyone in my group but me. The girls would always tell me not to take things personally, but I never believed there was any other way of taking it. Thankfully, they’d be loyal and not go to whatever I wasn’t invited to, except when they couldn’t get out of it.

“So how’s life with the Sebastian boys?”

They tend to ask the same question each time I see them. Thomas Mackee hears the question and turns around, eyebrows raised as if to say, “Go on, what are we like?”

“Pretty pathetic. Well, the Year Elevens, anyway,” I say, giving him a look back. “You?”

“Waverley guys are okay.”

“Are you going to that party?” one of the Pius girls behind us asks them.

They have an animated discussion about who is going to be there and who isn’t and what they’re not going to wear. Then they remember that I’m there.

“Who do you hang out with?” Natalia asks, looking over my shoulder. She’s always done that. Wherever you are, whoever you are, she’ll always look over your shoulder to see if there’s someone more exciting to speak to. It used to make me feel paranoid.

I don’t answer. They haven’t noticed Justine Kalinsky. They never noticed her at Stella’s either, except to make fun of her.

“I rang the other night,” I tell Michaela, changing the topic.

“Really. Did you leave a message?”

“Kind of.”

“Is everything okay?”

I feel awkward with Justine sitting next to me. She takes out a music book and studies it intently.

“My mum’s sick,” I say in a hushed tone, turning my body to face them so Justine Kalinsky doesn’t hear.

“Oh my God, Francis. Is she okay?”

I look at them and I don’t know what to say. It’s the first time I’ve said it out loud, and I find I can’t really describe what Mia has. People want symptoms. They want physical evidence. This thing my mum has is like the X-Files. It can’t be explained to the non-believer, and I’m just not ready to describe it at all right now. Not to someone who’s looking over my shoulder.

Thankfully, the dreaded Tina is walking down the aisle. I’m about to snicker something to the girls, but she arrives first.

“We’re getting off at the Forum for coffee,” she says before walking away, and I realize she’s speaking to Michaela and Natalia.

“Cool,” Natalia says.

This time it’s my turn to look over their shoulders. “You hang out with Tina? We hate Tina.”

“We hang out with everyone,” Natalia says defensively.

“She’s a bitch.”

“Once you get to know her, she isn’t.”

What is it with that argument? Why is it that you have to jump through hoops of fire to find out that someone’s decent? The fact that someone is a bitch on the surface says heaps about them.

“She treated us like dirt.”

“No she didn’t. She only treated you that way. You take things too personally, Francis. You always have.”

Justine’s stop approaches and she presses the button. She bumps past me, but I’m still looking at them.

“Come for a coffee with us,” they plead. “We haven’t spoken for ages.”

They look as if they mean it.

“Another time,” I tell them, and I get off the bus with Justine. I just don’t want to be on the bus for another second. Justine doesn’t ask why I’m following her home. Justine Kalinsky never questions anything. She doesn’t even look smug. She just walks, her bag bumping against her hip, her ginger hair coming out of its clasp.

“Are you okay?” she asks after a while.

“Just having one of those days.”

“No. I mean are you okay in general? You don’t seem to be. You haven’t all term.”

It’s the most we’ve ever spoken. I don’t want to be her bosom buddy and I don’t want to tell her about my mum.

“It’s just Sebastian’s getting to me,” I half-lie. “At least the Pius girls seem to be having a better time than us.”

“I’m having a great time.”

I glance at her.

“No, it’s true,” she says, “compared to Stella’s. I hated Stella’s.”

“Then what about all the protest Tara Finke goes on about? Why do you go along with her if you love the place?”

“Because she has every right to. It’s unfair what we have to put up with there. But that doesn’t make me hate the school. It’s better than complaining about nothing or discussing the tragic return of the off-the-shoulder T-shirt,” she says, referring to Natalia and Michaela’s conversation and revealing a bit of a bitchy streak. Which I kind of like.

After a while, I ask, “What was wrong with Stella’s? We had nothing to complain about.”

She shrugs. “Yes we did. People just convinced you that we didn’t.”

“‘You,’ singular or plural?”

She looks at me. “You think people chose not to hang out with me, don’t you? But it was my choice. I chose not to hang out with them. The only people I wanted to hang out with, I’m getting to hang out with now.”

I realize she’s including me in these “people.”

“Me?”

“I think it’s because you were a bit of a dickhead like the rest of us in music, but we kind of never knew it until we went to music camp in Year Nine for elective. I’d never seen you without your friends, and you were so different. So loud. And I thought, who is she? You were such a show-off, for three days, and everyone shit-stirred you and you let them, which was so much fun. And you sang ‘On My Own’ from Les Mis and you weren’t even self-conscious and it blew everyone away. I reckon that’s why Ms. Tagar picked it for the musical in Year Ten. Except you didn’t go for it.”

“I’m not into musicals.”

“Really? Funny that you knew all the words to all the songs.”

She turns into a tree-lined street of massive Federation houses and already I feel calmer.

Suddenly, Justine Kalinsky gasps and pulls me behind a tree.

“Oh my God. The tuba guy.”

“The what?” I ask, trying to look through the branches.

“Don’t look. He’ll think we’re looking,” she whispers.

We both look ridiculous.

“Let’s try to act natural.”

“Hiding behind a tree?”

She puts a finger to her lips and we stay hidden until I feel a giggle build up inside of me. A guy wearing a Sydney Boys High uniform walks by holding a tuba.

Justine’s face goes the most ferocious shade of red, and the moment he’s five steps away she grabs my hand and we run in the opposite direction.

We don’t stop running until we reach the top of the street, leaning on someone’s front fence, taking massive breaths.

“Who’s the tuba guy?”

“I don’t know his name.”

“How long have you not known him?”

She looks at me miserably. “You’re going to think I’m a loser.”

“Justine, my friends from Stella’s are hanging out with a girl who once wrote ‘Francis Spinelli’s mum is a lesbian slut’ on a wall at Petersham station. I think you’ll just have to wait for that Loser of the Month tiara a little while longer while I wear it, with pride, around my neighborhood.”

“Tina was always jealous of you.”

“You’re avoiding the question.”

“Three years. I’m in the same combined school band with him.”

“Have you ever spoken to him?”

“He looks at me at the bus stop. Sometimes I’m on the bus and it drives past his stop and we have eye contact.”

I think about it for a moment. “I had a bus-stop relationship for four years at Stella’s.”

“What’s his name?” she asks.

“The Boy from the Bus Stop. I never actually spoke to him, but we had a visual relationship, if you know what I mean.”

“I think ‘Tuba Guy’ is a bit more original than that.”

“I once liked a guy whose name was Roller Boy because I saw him on Rollerblades, but never found out his name. Then there was Altar Boy, whose name I discovered was Dudley, but I prefer to remember him as the former.”

She stops in front of her house and we’re awkward for a moment.

“Do you want to come in?”

I shake my head. “I still have to take another two buses home.”

“Don’t you live in Annandale?”

“I’m staying with my grandparents in Concord. My mum’s kind of sick.”

She nods, understanding.

I’m about to walk away when I think of something.

“Was I cruel? At Stella’s.”

She shakes her head. “You just seemed kind of … I don’t know … You always belonged to a big group, but it was like you didn’t want to be with them and I couldn’t understand why you stayed.”

“I liked … like them,” I explain. “They’re my friends.”

“I didn’t say it was them you didn’t like.”

I feel as if I’m talking to my biographer and the mood is too dramatic.

“I think you’re wrong, though,” I tell her.

“About?”

“The return of the off-the-shoulder T-shirt. Be afraid of that. Be very afraid.”

She giggles. I grin. I go home to my grandparents feeling okay.

chapter 11

ONCE A MONTH, my nonna has the Rosary at her place. About twenty people, male, female, mostly over sixty, mostly Italian-speaking, invade the house, their voices rising above each other as if they’re arguing rather than just greeting. I’ve promised my nonna that I’ll make the coffee while they’re saying the Rosary, placing it in the giant thermos to keep it hot. The guests hand me various selections of cakes and slices for the after-Rosary gossip fest, and I arrange them onto trays while my nonna sits everyone down in the living room. Just before they’re ready to begin, the doorbell rings. A moment later I watch my nonna freeze as a woman stands in front of her, haughtily holding out a plate of biscuits.

S biscuits.

Nonna’s famous S biscuits.

And I know instantly it’s William Trombal’s grandmother.

I take the plate off her politely and walk into the kitchen and begin to make the coffee. It takes forever to make enough for twenty, and I just want to get into my pajamas and curl up in bed. While I wait for the coffee to come up, I stand at the door and watch them praying, concentrating especially on Nonna and William Trombal’s grandmother. Through the Joyful Mysteries they’re putting on a front of piety, but by the Sorrowful Mysteries things have deteriorated. I can actually see my nonno looking at my nonna warningly and doing that twisting lip thing with his fingers, and I see the superiority on William Trombal’s grandmother’s face. The same air of superiority that I’ve seen on his.

And at that exact moment, I realize that the S biscuits must go. They cannot be paraded around by that smug woman while people congratulate her on how smooth the chocolate on top tastes and how perfect they are for dipping into your coffee.

So during the Glorious Mysteries, I put them in the bin, wrap up the garbage bag, and take it outside. I know the Virgin Mary will understand. The Jews are a lot like the Italians, so I’m sure there were jealousy issues between her and the other women of Nazareth.

Then I change into my pajamas and go to bed, trying to get into my English novel.

Half an hour later the doorbell rings. The Rosary group is making such a racket in the living room that no one hears and it rings again.

I go to answer it and find myself face to face with William Trombal. I’m not sure who’s more embarrassed, but I figure it’s me because of the Harry Potter pj’s I’m wearing, courtesy of Luca last Christmas. William looks confused.

“Do you live here?”

“No.”

I’m not interested in elaborating, so we leave it at that.

“I’m picking up my grandmother.”

“They’re still having coffee.”

We stand there nodding at each other.

“Can you tell her I’ll be waiting in the car?”

“I think you should tell her yourself.”

“Maybe I should just wait out here.”

He sits on the front porch, and I have no choice but to sit there with him. No matter who his grandmother is, my nonna would be furious if I left him outside on his own.

I’m racking my brains for something to say. He’s tapping his leg, pretending that my nonna’s garden is the most fascinating he’s ever seen.

“It’s good of you to run around after your grandmother,” I tell him.

He nods. He thinks he’s fantastic too.

“I’m her favorite. Youngest grandson and all. You know how Italians are about all that stuff.”

The girls in my family have always been the favorites, so no I don’t, I’d like to say.

“You don’t look Italian,” I tell him.

“Half.”

“Which half?”

He thinks for a moment, and I see a ghost of a smile appear on his face. “The pigheaded side.”

“I thought you said you were only half Italian?”

He bursts out laughing. It’s short, as if he’s regretted allowing me to make him laugh, but the satisfaction’s already mine.

“Do you live around here?”

“Kingsgrove,” he says.

“That’s miles away.”

“She has nine grandchildren. We take turns staying with her and it’s my week. You?”

“Annandale.”

We nod again, and I suddenly know how teachers feel when they’re trying to get information from us. After a moment he turns to face me, leaning his back against the pillar.

“You don’t seem to like Sebastian’s.”

“Why do you say that?”

“You just seem … down around the place.”

I shrug. “It’s being new and all. You’ve just forgotten what it’s like to be new.”

“No I haven’t. But I kind of know what you’re saying. I’ve been at that place since Year Five, you know. I was a choirboy, like your brother.”

“You don’t sing for the cathedral choir anymore?”

“No. Just the school one. My voice broke and now I do a very average baritone. Very devastating,” he says dramatically, but in a way I can tell he means it.

“So what do you want to do next year?”

“Civil engineering. New South Wales University. No matter how high my marks are.”

It’s strange speaking to someone who is stressed by the idea of getting high High School Certificate marks. But I like the fact that he’s scared that those same high marks may get in the way of something he seems to be passionate about doing.

“You?” he asks.

“I haven’t the faintest clue. I dread next year, when I’ll be asked a thousand times a week.”

“That’s a bit of an exaggeration. You only get asked one hundred times.”

He looks relaxed. As if he’s enjoying himself.

“So about that list,” he says. “I don’t get number nine. What does ‘Stalag 17 is a travesty of co-educational drama’ mean?”

I can’t believe he knows it by heart.

“The girls say they need participation,” I inform him. “It’s not just about sports, either. They didn’t even audition us for drama or debating or anything. They stuck with the preexisting teams.”

“It’s kind of hard to explain, but people didn’t like you girls coming in. Teachers, students, parents. They wanted things to stay the way they were, because the way they were worked. You’ve been here not even two terms. In drama, for example, don’t push for something this year, push for next year’s production.”

“Fair enough. I’ll put it forward to the committee,” I say, pretending that we actually have one.

“How come you always do the asking?” he asks.

“Because they think William Trombal and I are like this,” I say, crossing my fingers.

Before he can respond, we hear a sound behind us and turn just as my nonna is politely escorting his nonna out. Signora Trombal gives me an evil look, and our nonnas insincerely kiss each other on both cheeks.

As they walk away, she clutches on to him, whispering something urgently in his ear. When he reaches the gate, he turns around and there’s this hint of a smile on his face, and he begins to walk back to me. I’m petrified. She’s sending him back to demand the biscuits, and he’s enjoying it like hell.

He stops in front of me, silent for a moment, and I’m trying not to give away my fear.

“It’s Will, by the way,” he says.

I don’t ask what he means.

“Not William.”

“Okay,” I say, relieved.

He goes to walk away but then stops again, and a flash of something comes over his face, like a grimace. “Don’t come and watch rugby this week. Please.”

“Why? Could it get any worse?”

“We’re playing last year’s winners … plus our winger, Sallo– big guy, big hair?—he’s going out with their captain’s ex-girlfriend. It’s going to be ugly.”

“Then you’ll need fans.”

“So you’re a fan, are you?”

I think he’s flirting with me and I have this ridiculous grin on my face but I can’t help it.

He goes to leave but then stops again. “And just so you know,” he tells me. “I know you’re behind the disappearance of the biscuits.”

“Biscuits?”

“My nonna’s S biscuits.”

“Funny, that. My nonna makes S biscuits too. She’s actually the Queen of S Biscuits.”

He’s trying not to grin.

And I don’t know why, but I sit on that step until the last person’s gone home and I’m still grinning.

Like someone who has a bit of a crush.

Angelina takes me bridesmaid-dress shopping. Her mother comes along and so does Nonna Anna. Her mother doesn’t get on with Nonna Anna because Nonna Anna can’t stand anyone who’s married to her sons, and Angelina doesn’t get on with her mother because, even though Angelina’s getting married soon, her mother keeps on inviting Angelina’s ex-boyfriend over for dinner, hoping that Angelina’s going to forget he was a lying scumbag with a zero IQ. Angelina’s mother doesn’t like me because she thinks that Luca and I are Nonna Anna’s favorites, and I hate Angelina’s mother because she once said that my mother should stay home and look after her kids instead of getting another degree, and at the moment I don’t like Nonna Anna because she won’t let me stay up after 10:30 and I missed out on Buffy.

Nonna and Angelina’s mother make me try on fourteen dresses. Angelina sits on the other side of the room, shaking her head, mouthing obscenities. The dresses are hideous, and Angelina’s wedding is in danger of being hijacked by two very angry women who are only united by their obsession with bright-colored taffeta.

I’m a rag doll, pulled at from each side. The moronic shop assistant tells me I look beautiful, and in the distance, I can see that Angelina has had enough. When they make me try on something that’s lilac, with boning in the bodice and something called a sweet-heart neckline, she lifts herself from the chair and makes her way toward us.

“Get dressed, Frankie. I’m making the dresses.”

“You can’t sew,” her mother says.

“I’ll teach myself.”

I put on my jeans and throw the dress at the shop assistant. Angelina takes my hand and we make a run for it.

Later on, we’re sitting in a café. She’s just smoked her fifth cigarette in an hour.

“Those things are going to kill you.”

“My mother will beat them to it, so I may as well enjoy another one.”

I try to smile, but I can’t.

“Luca reckons that everyone’s saying that my mum’s had a nervous breakdown as opposed to a ‘bit of a breakdown.’ ”

She looks at me, and I can see there are tears in her eyes. Mia’s always been her idol. The number of times Angelina ran away from home when she was a teenager and came and stayed with us are countless.

“They’re just words,” she says. “People use them to try to explain things they don’t understand.”

“What would you call it?”

I’m about to hear the truth, because Angelina doesn’t lie, and after I hear this truth I won’t be able to lie either, and that frightens me to death.

“It’s depression, Frankie.”

“I don’t understand. Sad people with sad lives are depressed. Mia’s not one of them.”

Angelina takes hold of my hand.

“I think everything’s just shut down on her. Maybe for one reason or maybe for a thousand. It’s kind of like a grief, and it’s not a puzzle that you’re supposed to work out on your own, Frankie. But I’ll tell you this. Mia is not going to get better being looked after by her mother. You have to find a way of getting back home. For you and Robert and Luca and Mia to get back together—and then you start from there.”

“But I don’t know how,” I whisper, trying not to cry. “I just want to go home and I don’t know how.”

“Then find a way,” she says firmly. “I love Nonna and I love the aunties, but don’t let them own this. Don’t let Mia wake up from this nightmare and find you guys in pieces. It’ll kill her more than anything else.”

I see Nonna Anna and Angelina’s mum coming toward us. I picture a world of Who Wants to Be a Millionaire and no Buffy.

I need to find a way home.